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by Tris'sLightningQuill
Summary: It would not do to lose face now. For every pair of eyes she could see, there were another two she could not, all of them depending on her to...assure them that all was as it should be. Only, Sabriel wasn't at all sure that she could.


The landing was a near thing. Her mouth was so dry that the whistled notes came sporadically, choppily, Charter marks fizzling out half-formed. The paperwing dipped and lurched crazily over the Sea of Saere, and Sabriel clutched the laminated rim until her knuckles blanched, feet jammed against the interior of the canoe-like prow—the constant sick throbbing in her leg, exacerbated by the pressure, threatened to tumble her over the edge into blackness. By the time she cleared the isthmus and circled back towards the palace, she was panting and dangerously close to hyperventilation. But the capricious craft was forgiving and she managed to hold steady over the aqueducts and the crowded market streets. The fanfare that greeted her as she closed in on the swath of green and the pebbly landing strip was a double-edged relief.

The paperwing contacted with the ground too soon and skimmed an extra length, juddering fiercely, too close to shaking her loose despite the restraints or rolling and cracking down the middle. As she skidded to a haphazard standstill, she pressed both hands to her eyes, shoving off helmet and goggles, gulping cold air and struggling to keep from vomiting from airsickness and the nausea induced by the fetid wound. She couldn't remain in the cockpit, though, and forced herself through sheer willpower to unfasten the straps and buckle on her bells. That was easy enough—she didn't have to leave the safety of her seat. Climbing out was nearly enough to unbalance her, however, and the paperwing rocked reproachfully underneath her as she half-collapsed against it to retrieve [her sword] from the passenger seat. She had to bite both lips to suppress a groan that was very nearly a scream, dragging her injured leg over, and then it was only muffled against her teeth.

There was only so long she could linger on the strip before those who were staring began to wonder what she was avoiding. Sabriel fondly patted the prow of the faithful little craft just above the painted hawk's eye. It was just as well they were so well acquainted. Another vessel might have thrown her for those botched marks that last several leagues.

Sabriel closed her eyes briefly in dread. It was a long way to the stairwell. For a moment she half-considered using [the sword] as a crutch.

She wasn't aware of the man who had been stumping up to her until he was upon her, grinning in a way that was determinedly cheerful behind his grizzled beard. She swallowed a second scream and dragged her hand away from the bandolier.

"Milady," Berd said, proffering his arm. "I'd be honored to escort you."

"Thank you, Berd." she allowed real relief to suffuse the words as she gratefully looped her elbow through his. The guards on the walls all stared straight ahead, but she knew they were scrutinizing her. Through the growing buzz in her skull she noticed the clangor from the adjacent practice yard had ceased. It _would not do_ to lose face now. For every pair of eyes she could see, there were another two she could not, all of them depending on her to stand up straight and assure them that all was as it should be. Only, Sabriel wasn't at all sure that she could do either.

The gnarled old veteran tucked her hand to his side, hugging her close; his sturdy shoulder butted up under her armpit, supporting most of her weight without appearing to. "Jest you lean on me now, Lady Abhorsen." he murmured good-naturedly.

She squeezed his hand in mute appreciation.

"Humor an old man," he went on in a robust, jovial tone meant to carry. "Legs ain't what they once was, y'know." he chuckled heartily. She was able to limp along unnoticed in the cloak of his deliberate gait, clutching his arm tight enough to bruise through the mail as he prattled on loudly and cheerfully. Blood pounded an imperative in her ears as she tried not to think of the long, twisting flight of stairs down to the Reservoir from the West Yard. She managed to keep her features cemented in a gracious smile down the interminable length of graveled drive, though just _how_ she managed it she never knew. The squelch of blood in her boot was was going to drive her insane, if it didn't make her sick first.

"'Ere we are," Berd announced at last, easing her into the mercifully shadowed alcove at the top of the stairs.

Sabriel leaned gratefully against the cold stone, wedging herself upright with the scabbard's tip grounded in a groove of the cobbles. She could feel the fixed smile literally trembling on her face as she reached out and grasped the old man's ring-studded cuirass. "_Thank you_, Berd." she whispered fervently.

"Don't you mention it, milady." he returned, bowing as was respectful and tipping his reinforced cap to her. "Shall I, uh...accompany you further?" he ventured hesitantly. They both knew he could not follow where she was going, but for a moment Sabriel firmly wished that were possible. His stolid support was a genuine kindness, and Sabriel ached for his sturdy bulk to lean on as she considered letting him guide her down the one hundred fifty-six treacherous stairs, Abhorsen or no.

Instead, she shook her head, not trusting her voice, and pressed his knobbledy, scarred hand once more. Berd was a loyal retainer, in her service since the very first years of the Restoration, through field campaigns, assassination attempts, and the births of her children. Berd came to her rescue once again, preserving her all-important image when she was in no fit state to look after it herself.

She opened her mouth once more, but he waved her thanks away, stumping easily back to his post, whistling tunelessly.

Her leg was numb well up into her side now, and the dead smell was awful in the confined passageway, but Sabriel refused to think about that. She gritted her teeth and began the painstaking climb down to the barges that would take her out to the Great Charter Stones at the center of the Reservoir. Soon, Touchstone would come down and patch her up and belabor her for her utter stupidity once again. But Sam and Ellimere would be with him, and she had to make herself presentable. Sabriel cast off the first raft and sketched out the Marks that would propel her to the enclave farther out where the cold dissipated and the water was no longer wet. She huddled in the center of the barge, mercifully off her feet at last, and tucked her cloak tightly around her legs. Touchstone would see right through her of course, dratted man always did, but it was important that her children saw what they needed to see, almost as much as the people did. A weakness, she knew, that she still thought of them that way—as children to be protected—when Sameth, her baby, was very nearly a man and certainly no longer a child. And she recalled why her pack was such a lumpy cushion under her head, and stared at the ceiling with resignation. Children or not, the Kingdom would need all the aid it could garner in the days to come. And though she must think of all that in just a moment, for now she simply lay there, safe and sort of warm and only a little sick. In a moment, she would see her children, and her husband would kiss her all better.


End file.
